


PWKM Femslash Collection

by Ember_Keelty



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-06
Updated: 2010-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:12:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ember_Keelty/pseuds/Ember_Keelty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My femslash fills for the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, dating from 2008 to 2009.  Ratings range from G to M, see chapter titles for details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Less Than Kind (Dahlia/Iris) Rated T

**Author's Note:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "I'm going to hell for this, but...
> 
> Dahlia/Iris, prison sex, before Dahlia gets the noose. Non-con/dub-con, but naturally, bonus points if Iris secretly likes it."
> 
> And... actually, I didn't fill it. No sex here, just some mind games and kissing and dirty-bad-wrong thoughts. Better than nothing though, right?

When Iris stepped into the bone-white, fluorescently lit cube of a cell, she was greeted by the sight of her own stolen smile beaming back at her from her sister's face. The condemned woman was seated calmly at a table in the center of the room, her right hand cuffed to one of the legs. The table itself was bolted securely to the floor. It was all very sensible and straight-forward, and it filled Iris with a quiet sense of dread. She bit her lip and did not smile back.

"Hello, dear sister," Dahlia said to her as the door closed on them. "I hope you're not here to save my soul. There was a chaplain came to try that last week. Queer little man, but he was persistent. I didn't have the heart to disappoint him, so I just cried and beat my breast until he was satisfied and left me alone. It was terribly dull, and at the end of it all I was still as wicked as ever."

"I don't think that you're wicked, Sis," Iris said softly, trying to ignore the lump in her throat as she looked her twin over. It was peculiar, but prison seemed to have brought the Fey out in Dahlia. The red in her hair had long ago washed out, leaving behind obsidian black. More strikingly, since her highly practiced, deceptively delicate comportment was no longer of any use to her, she had traded it in for her mother's strong, proud bearing.

"Oh, but I am, Sister Iris," Dahlia assured her. "I'm dreadfully wicked. I ought to be hanged—hanged until my head swells up and my tongue lolls out and blood comes draining from my mouth."

"Stop it," Iris pleaded with her as her hand jumped reflexively to her own slender neck.. "You mustn't say things like that."

"I've been a very bad girl," Dahlia continued, brushing her off with a pleasant smile. "But just a few weeks longer and all scores will be settled. I'm such a skinny little waif of a thing, you know, that I'll probably swing about horribly. I kept telling myself that I should put on weight, but I'm just too monstrously vain to go through with it. It will hurt more than it should this way, but at least I'll look pretty as I'm flailing around helplessly up in the air. It should be quite a sight. You will come to see it, won't you?"

Iris was beginning to feel physically ill. "Why do you do this?"

"Why shouldn't I? You agree, don't you? That I deserve to die?"

 _Yes_ , Iris thought, because Dahlia had taken life, because she had murdered three people in cold blood, tortured a fourth until he could no longer bear to live, and very nearly killed the sweetest, kindest, most selfless man Iris had ever had the good fortune of meeting. _No_ , Iris thought, because Dahlia had been hurt more deeply than anyone but her sister could ever understand, and because Dahlia _was_ her sister, her strong, clever, beautiful sister who had guarded and cared for her when their father had deemed them a nuisance and their mother a disgrace. "I don't _want_ you to die," she said at last, because it was the only honest answer she could give. "But… it's the law."

"Of course. And the law is more important than your wicked old sister."

"What can I do?" Iris asked helplessly.

"Come closer," Dahlia said, as though it were an answer. "Why are you hovering in that corner, silly thing? I don't bite, you know."

Iris had not meant to hover. Dahlia was her other half, and she ached to be near her. Ever since she had walked into the room she had wanted nothing more than to rush to her sister and embrace her, to kiss the top of her head and dust her hair with tears of salt. But the last time she had done that, Dahlia had yelled at her and pushed her away. "You used to," Iris said fondly as she at last crossed the space between them. "When we were little. We were the terror of the village, remember?" Looking down on Dahlia seemed somehow _wrong_ , so Iris kneeled beside her and looked up. "Back when we were inseparable. It seems so long ago."

She laid her head on her sister's legs and tried to imagine the rest of her life. Many times at the temple her mind and heart would go out to her sister, reaching across the distance like a streamer of lightning, an electric impulse that felt cold and dark and sought out the connection that could bring light and warmth, a connection that only happened once in a very great while. She dreaded the day she would wake up and find herself reaching into the ether, groping about in the dark for a light that had long gone out. Once in a while made her feel like half herself, but never? She was afraid that never would make her into a ghost.

"I remember," Dahlia assured her. She slipped her free hand under Iris's hood and combed her fingers through her sister's hair. "And I remember we used to sit for hours braiding and unbraiding each other's hair. Then there was that one time I cut all yours off. I was sorry afterwards—I had nothing to play with for months."

Iris closed her eyes and again resolved not to cry. Dahlia always got annoyed with her when she cried. Besides, right now they were together. In her head she was clinging franticly to the moment and to the cool touch of her sister's soft, deft fingers brushing against her scalp. The only painful thing was the thought that it would end.

Dahlia withdrew he hand. As Iris lay still and quiet, absorbed in the fading sensation of her sister's fingers on her skin and the slight spark of static lingering in her hair, there came a faint clinking sound from somewhere not far from her ear. Then her peace was shattered as her sister's lap vanished from beneath her head, dumping her to the floor.

Wasting no time even to stretch her legs, Dahlia pulled her sister to her feet, tore off her hood, and slipped the hairpin back into her braid. "Take off your clothes," she commanded.

"What?" Dahlia already had her shirt off by the time Iris figured out what was going on. "Sis, we can't just trade. It'll never work. Not here."

"It's never not worked before," Dahlia reminded her as she tugged loose the sash from Iris's waist. "Well, there's was that one time. But that was hardly my fault, now was it?"

 _Dusky Bridge._ "Sis…"

"Amazing how much misery one silly little jewel can cause." Dahlia struggled to pull Iris's cassock up over her head. "Hold your arms up, you great lump! I have to do everything myself, don't I? I should have then, too. That way none of this would be happening."

 _I was scared._ "Sis…"

 _"I'll kill her."_

 _"Sorry, but you aren't going to get the chance."_

"I don't want to think about it." Her cassock came off, then her undershirt. "Dahlia, I don't want—"

"Put these on," Dahlia demanded, thrusting her prison clothes into Iris's arms.

Iris looked into her sister's eyes imploringly. "I… I don't think that this is a good idea," she said.

Dahlia grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked down, forcing Iris onto her knees. "I said put them on! It isn't up for debate." Without another word, Iris hastily obeyed. When she had finished, Dahlia hauled her up by the collar of her black-striped shirt, shoved her into the chair, and clapped the shackle shut on her wrist.

"What happens to me, then?" Iris asked as her sister donned her temple robes.

"Wait five days—that's all it will take me to make a clean break—and then ask the nice guards to take your fingerprints. They'll see the mistake they've made. Is this how the sash goes?" Iris nodded. "Of course, if I'm going to be completely honest—and you know, dear sister, that I'm always honest with you—you won't be set free right away. Helping a Death Row inmate to escape is a serious crime. But if I can survive a few years in prison, so can you. After all, we are twins."

Iris gave the chain on her wrist a half-hearted tug. She was surprised at how much wearing handcuffs _hurt_ ; already the metal was digging painfully into her skin, cutting off the circulation in her hand. "I don't know. You're so much stronger than I am."

"Don't be such a baby." Tucking a few stray locks of hair under her hood, Dahlia drew herself up to her full height and glared down at her twin. "If you'd learned how to stand fast earlier, none of this would be necessary. Now you'll just have to do the best you can." She leaned over the chair and took one of her sister's braids in each hand. At first Iris was afraid that Dahlia would pull her hair again, but instead she plunged down and brushed lips with her, allowing one warm, gentle breath to escape into Iris's mouth before she pulled away and headed for the door.

Stunned speechless, Iris looked on in bewildered silence. Her lips tingled with heat, and the feeling spread until it covered every inch of her skin. She felt unstable, out of balance. Images were popping into her head that really, really should not be, and Dahlia was so beautiful in her impossible confidence, so radiant when things were going her way, so strong and clever and of _course_ she would make it out. But that other idea had to go away, because it was a horrible, disgraceful, impossible thing to be thinking about one's sister, even worse than that _other_ other idea she had been trying not to think of earlier.

 _"I'll kill her."_

Yes, dwelling on the taste of Dahlia's lips was worse—decidedly worse—than dwelling on the fact that she never did reveal what "pressing matters elsewhere" had kept her from being on the bridge herself that fateful day.

 _"Sorry, but_ you _aren't going to get the chance."_

As the door opened and the guards escorted Dahlia out, calling her "Sister" and attempting to console her (for she was quite noticeably tearing up) and all the while shooting feelingless glances at her sister in the cell, Iris began to panic. She should and she shouldn't, she had to and she couldn't. She owed it to her sister, Dahlia, her other half, and she owed it to Feenie and Valerie and Mr. Armando and Mr. Swallow and poor, poor Mr. Fawles. _And what about me?_ She pushed that question away, because she was owed nothing. She had failed everyone on both sides.

The veins in her shackled hand felt as though a thousand tiny icicles were stabbing into them from all directions.

"Look at her wrists!" Iris shouted suddenly, though in another instant she was unable to recall making up her mind to do so. But it was too late now, the guards were looking straight at her. "Look at her wrists, they'll be red where the handcuffs were! We switched places! I'm Iris, she's Dahlia!"

"You ungrateful little worm!" Dahlia shrieked, and in another instant was bearing down on her. Two small but surprisingly strong hands with long, thin fingers wrapped around Iris's throat. Choking, the temple maiden looked up at her sister and into the face of a stranger. Dahlia's nostrils were flared, her eyes narrowed and her pupils wide. Her smile was no longer the same one Iris saw when she looked in the mirror, but rather the clenched, tooth-baring grin of a death's head. Iris gasped in vain. Her whole body began to feel like her bound hand. The corners of her vision clouded over, and the darkness worked its way inward until all she could see were her sister's wild, demon-fire eyes.

The guards grabbed hold of Dahlia and wrestled her to the floor. "Your fault!" she screamed at her sister. "You're as much to blame as that bitch lawyer! Couldn't stay put on the bridge, couldn't get back the bottle, couldn't even do this! You're useless, that's what you are! Get out of my sight!"

Iris barely heard her. She was crying, retching, sweating all over and struggling to breathe. There was water on her skin and fire in her lungs and all in all it seemed so very stupidly, morbidly familiar.


	2. Maya Has a Type (Franziska/Maya) Rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "I want Phoenix to somehow find out that Maya's gay.
> 
> She's reading a gay magazine/website, she's talking to someone on the phone about this gorgeous girl she just saw in town, WHATEVER. And then, when he brings it up, she just stares and goes 'Um, yeah, isn't it kinda obvious?' and he's just 'WHAT WHAT um... I, er, um...'
> 
> Bonus points for Pearl being around and being all... 'Well, yeah. BUT SHE STILL LOVES YOU MR. NICK YOU'RE SPESHUL! =D =D =D'
> 
> Come on, make me giggle~ Serious coming out stories are too sad for me. (Also, I ship Fran/Maya both as a pairing and a friend thing. JUST A HINT. My subtlety, can you see it? No? Oh OK then.)"

Another day, another awkward situation courtesy of Maya Fey.

It had all started innocently, not to mention predictably. Ever since he'd begun catching glimpses of advertisements for the new Will Powers flick as he was flipping channels, Phoenix had known that it was only a matter of time before Maya dragged him off and shoved him into a foldable chair with gum stuck to the bottom in a dark, cavernous room packed to the ceiling with pre-teen boys. Why? "Because, Nick, you _can't_ go to the movies alone, especially not to epicly amazing movies like _The Pink Princess Versus the Black Banshee_."

"You haven't even seen it yet," Phoenix had pointed out to her. "How do you know it's going to be amazing?"

Maya had taken a deep breath and puffed her cheeks impatiently. "It's the Pink Princess movie! It has cyborg samurai princesses and talking jet-propelled robot horses and super-powered ninja chicks! How could it possibly _not_ be amazing?" There was no arguing with logic like that, and before he knew what had hit him, Phoenix was munching on a bag full of what tasted like styrofoam smothered in salt-flavored oil and thinking about what a nightmare some poor attorney was going to have sorting out a murder in which the victim's head had spontaneously combusted from a hyper-focused sonic blast courtesy of a time-traveling ninja assassin.

That was the point at which the titular villain showed up. The Black Banshee was a head-exploding, kimono-wearing, sai-wielding psychopath with large breasts and gravity-defying purple hair. Judging by the whistles from the audience whenever she got a close-up, most of the older boys in the audience seemed to think she was fantastic. Phoenix thought she was terrifying.

"I don't get it," he whispered to Maya. "How can anyone be attracted to someone who could kill him with her _voice_?"

Maya rolled her eyes. "Danger is sexy, Nick," she explained. Then, as if _that_ weren't bad enough to hear coming from someone who normally acted like a ten-year-old, she thoughtfully added, "I'd hit it."

Phoenix stared at her. "Um, Maya? You do know that's a woman, right?"

Maya was busy staring at the Black Banshee's extraordinary rack. "Yep. It's pretty hard to miss. Why?"

 _Steady, Phoenix._ "Um," he stuttered. "Well… It's just…"

Maya turned to look at him and noticed his shocked expression. "Oh, Nick, I'm sorry!" she gasped. "I thought you knew." Her outburst was greeted with a chorus of sibilant rebukes from the rest of the audience. She turned around in her chair and stuck out her tongue at the group behind her. "Oh, like _you've_ been quiet this whole time, Mr. Flirty McCatcaller!"

"It's okay," Phoenix assured her. "I'm not mad or anything. It's just… you never told me!"

"Sorry. I guess I thought it was obvious."

"Well, now I know." Phoenix was rather pleased with how he had handled a potentially embarrassing conversation. He was just congratulating himself on his open-mindedness and unflappability when he heard Maya muttering to herself.

"I wonder if I could convince Franziska to wear a kimono like that," she was saying. "Maybe if I got her a pair of sai to go with it…"

Five minutes later, the bouncers finally managed to safely extract the twitching, babbling, and half-catatonic defense attorney from the midst of the crowded theater.


	3. Through the Motions (Celeste/Adrian, Franziska/Adrian) Rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "I want to see Adrian at Celeste's funeral. Lots of angst and one-sided Adrian/Celeste. Mega bonus points if she tries to commit suicide after the funeral.
> 
> More bonus points if you mention Franziska at the end.
> 
> Make me cry, anon"

Why here? Why today? The fact of Celeste's death is everywhere at all times, pressing in, suffocating, so what's the point of these formalities?

Go through the motions and try not to wonder. Black dress. Black veil. Moderate tears that help nothing and heal nothing and do nothing to express what you're feeling, because you must have cried dozens of times in your life and it has never, never been like this.

Speak when spoken to. Offer condolences. Answer questions. Say, "She was my mentor," when that doesn't begin to explain the situation, doesn't begin to convey how much you

Don't fall apart. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Take comfort where you can. Be grateful that _they_ didn't dare to show their faces here, that even _they_ aren't _that_ audacious.

Sit and maintain a respectful silence through the eulogy. Resist the urge to remark on how pointless it is, how little justice it does her. Celeste was the sun. She was the source of all the light and warmth in the world, and now she is dead. What more is there to say?

Stand when the time comes. Approach the coffin. Don't run. Don't balk. Don't collapse shaking and refuse to take another step.

Don't respond when the person in front of you says, "She looks so peaceful." Don't ask whether he knows how she died. He does. Everyone does.

Look.

Reach down to brush a strand of hair from her face. Don't let your fingers linger on her skin. Don't think about how cold she is. Don't think about how warm she was. Don't think at all. Just look.

Don't stare too long. Move. Come on.

Don't protest when they close the coffin lid and seal away her radiance forever. Don't make a scene when they lower her down into the hidden depths of the earth where you'll never see her again and cover her with dirt.

Go straight home afterwards. Don't attend the reception. You know when you've reached your limits.

 

\---

  
Try not to think about what comes next, because nothing does. Ever since that day, all the future held was a funeral. Attending it was the only thing left that had to be done. Tear your precious date book to shreds. There is no more future.

Take a nap, because there's nothing else to do. Try not to sleep the whole day away. Fail. Try not to sleep too long into the next morning. Fail.

Wake up to hunger spasms, and force yourself out of bed to fix… breakfast? Lunch? Lunch. Instant noodles are fine. There's no energy or inclination to make anything else.

Force down a bite to appease your stomach, even though it tastes like ash. Did you really manage to botch up ramen, or is it just in your head? Try to take another bite. Fail.

Why bother eating? Only one answer occurs, and it begs a question you've been trying to avoid, because you know that if you let yourself consider it

Clear your place. Push the table back so that the edge is aligned with the light fixture above. Set the chair on top, facing out. Find an old towel and twist it into a sort of rope, then climb onto the chair, fasten a knot around the light and another around your neck and…

Jump.

It all happens so fast. You're falling, and then you're not, and then there's a loud noise and you are again, and you reach for the chair and you hit the floor and the chair hits you and something heavy hits the chair and there's glass flying everywhere and your neck hurts like Hell and you can't move at all and you're probably paralyzed and you've failed, failed, failed, how could you fail at _this_?

Time passes, and nothing happens until the man from the apartment below knocks on the door and shouts that he heard screams and thuds and crashes and various other troubling noises, and when there's no response he says that he's going to call 911.

 

\---

  
"When the paramedics came and found me like that, I just felt so… exposed. Like what little dignity I'd ever had was shattered beyond all hope of repair. And suddenly I was thinking of _them_ , and I imagined _them_ laughing at me, then laughing at Celeste, and I… I was _angry_.

"It was the first time since her death I'd felt anything but despair.

"So that's what I lived off for a while, all that anger and hatred, and I resigned myself to a life of going through the motions until I could make my move. A part of me always felt that it was wrong, or at least not quite right, and I despised myself for it. But it doesn't matter anymore, whether it was right or wrong. All that matters is it's over. And I'm glad it is, but I don't regret a moment of it, because it kept me alive to see this day.

"And… that's all, I suppose. I'm sure I already know what you're going to say."

No response.

"It's… it's all right. I don't mind. I know very well I acted like a—"

"Fool," the other woman murmurs, and follows the word with a kiss.


	4. Beautiful in Red (Dahlia/Mia)  Rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "Fourteen parts worth of quality Kink Meme have given us some pretty hot masturbation fic. Because masturbation fic is my favorite, I'm asking for more.
> 
> But here's the kicker: I don't want a description of a character masturbating (even though that's really hot). I want a description of the character's fantasy, exactly how it plays out in his/her mind. For example, I wouldn't want a fic describing how Edgeworth's laying back on his couch, dragging his foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock. I'd want a fic describing how he's being screwed by the Pink Princess with tentacles.
> 
> I'm not choosy about pairings or sexual orientations, but please no fic about how Phoenix is thinking about doing Edgeworth or vice versa, as I've already read a million of those."

  
_(She's tied up, kneeling, wrists bound to ankles, white dress like a virgin sacrifice. I drag the knife along her clavicle and as the blood stains the neckline I say,)_   


Miss Fey, my word! You're beautiful in red!

 _(The poison's already running in her veins, so I only have so long to play_ have to get this done quickly, those brutes _and she can feel it, burning in her heart, searing through her stomach, ooh, yes! And she looks at me so defiantly, but it's all an act, bitch, beat it out of her! So I put the knife in her mouth and I carve up her ugly face and cut that ridiculous mole clean off and now she's squirming, trying to double over to ease the pain in her gut, but the ropes won't let her so she just sits there and writhes and I stand up, tower above her, she can see I'm covered in her blood and I say,)_

Aren't I too? Tell me I'm beautiful!

 _(She looks at me in awe, like she's seeing me for the first time, and all the strength is gone from her voice:)_

"You... are. So very... beautiful."

( _And then her eyes widen, fill with terror and pain and she can't see anymore, she spits up blood, her shoulders slump, head flops to her chest, she falls, she's DEAD!_ )

She made it just in time; in another minute, the prison guards came along to confiscate the cut-off broom handle. Dahlia was too exhausted to protest, and in too pleasant a mood to even want to.


	5. A Nice Christian Boy (Franziska/Maya) Rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "I have something for you, Anon.
> 
> My best buddy's being followed around by a Bible-thumper- the guy's quoting Revelations at him, tellin' him to be born again, the works. He's been messing with the guy back, including giving him some of my favorite lines (i.e. "So, where do you think you're gonna go when you die?" "Honestly? No idea. Figure I'll find out when I get there.").
> 
> SO, now I kinda wanna see our favorite gay lawyers dealing with someone like this. Bonus points if Phoenix and Edgeworth are already in a relationship and are amused. Major bonus points if others get in on the fun- Godot, Franziska, Maya, Adrian, Mia!Maya, whoever you think should be in on it- and start givin' Bible-Thumper the run around.
> 
> And, because my best buddy is Roc's son, ULTRA MAJOR HUGE bonus points if you can work her and Xenia in there."
> 
> Another anon added:
> 
> "Oh my god, this sounds hilariously awesome. My only worry is that I HATE offending people, even the ones that get offended by almost everything. So to Writer!Anon, if the Fundie/Bible Thumper/whatever could REALLY DESERVE any sort of punishment that they get, that would be great.
> 
> Also, if Anon could somehow work in Franziska/Adrian, Franziska/Maya, or Maya/Any Female Character (As long as it isn't particularly disturbing... like Pearl.) I would love you forever. "
> 
> A third anon added:
> 
> "I've been followed around by people like this. Even back in the day when I was a believer. The world would be a better place if someone figured out how to spray for the ones that won't go away. This anon offers up additional bonus points for the inclusion of chick tracts. http://www.chick.com/catalog/tractlist.asp"

"Maya Fey, are you acquainted with a Jack Chick?"

"Jack Chick? Isn't that the guy who draws all those crazy religious cartoons?"

"Yes! Where does he live?"

"Um, I don't know. Why?"

"Because that foolish fool keeps sending me these foolish papers!" With that, Franziska flung a fistful of fliers through the open door and into Maya's apartment. "I intend to educate him in matters of proper etiquette!"

Maya caught one of the drifting papers and examined it. Featured prominently were a curvaceous brunette in long occult robes and a pretty blonde girl with ribbons in her hair. The former appeared to be casting an enchantment on the latter, who was summarily rescued by an attractive young man with a cross pinned to his lapel. An arrow had been drawn pointing to the dark-haired girl, and someone had scribbled in the margin the words, "Remind you of anyone?"

Maya frowned. "I don't think Mr. Chick was the one who sent you these, Franziska."

"Yes, he was!" The other woman snatched the tract back and pointed to the artist's signature. "You see?"

"Mr. Chick just makes the comics," Maya explained. "Other people buy them and hand them out."

"Impossible! It is unthinkable that there could be more than one fool foolish enough to foolishly distribute this foolish foolery!"

Maya considered this. "There's no arguing with logic that airtight," she admitted.

Franziska grinned smugly. "Maya Fey," she said, extending a gloved hand to the other woman, "you will help me find Jack Chick, and I will teach him to keep his nose out of other people's personal business." She cracked her whip for emphasis.

"That sounds fun!" Maya said, clasping her hands and grinning widely. "But also kind of mean," she added quickly, withdrawing into the doorway a bit and tapping her chin.

"He insulted you." Franziska's ash-gray eyes smoldered as she said it, and Maya realized for the first time just how serious she was about this.

"I have a better idea." Maya took the other girl's outstretched hand and held it in both of hers. "Let's make today an Everything Jack Chick Hates Day. We can go to the movie theater and watch something with wizards and monsters in it. Then I'll call Penny and see if her Dungeons and Dragons group is meeting today. And there's always a local band or two playing at some bar somewhere, so we can listen to rock music, dance wildly, and drink alcoholic beverages all at the same time!"

Franziska looked unamused. "That sounds utterly foolish."

"And at the end of the evening," Maya continued, undaunted, "we can go back to your place and do something that Mr. Chick _really_ wouldn't like." To illustrate, she tugged the other woman into her apartment, spun around to close the door behind them, then leaned back against it and pulled Franziska into a kiss.

When she broke away, Franziska was smiling again, though somewhat reluctantly. "With you, Maya Fey," she said, "behaving foolishly can have its rewards."

 

\---

  
The following morning, Maya awoke in an empty bed to the sound of her girlfriend's bloodthirsty shriek.

"JACK CHICK, WE MEET AT LAST!"

This was followed by a loud _crack_ and a plaintive yelp. Sighing, Maya wrapped herself in the bed sheets and went to make sure that Franziska didn't kill the poor jerk.

She opened the door of Franziska's apartment and looked out to see a man of about Nick's age scrambling about on the dew-studded ground, trying to regather his spilled fliers. He wore a white collared shirt, khaki slacks, and square-framed glasses. His hair had been gelled, combed, and meticulously parted to one side. Franziska, clad in nothing but a steel-blue bathrobe, was towering above him and beating him mercilessly with her whip.

"If I ever" _Crack!_ "see another foolish flier" _Crack!_ "I will flay your foolish face!" _Crack!_

Maya announced her presence with a yawn. "Isn't it a little early in the morning for this?" she asked, stretching her shoulders.

Franziska turned to her. "I have met this man!" she said, pointing at him with the handle of her whip. "He propositioned me in the subway!"

"I never 'propositioned' you!" the man objected. "I just wanted to get to know you! And you weren't very kind about it, either. I followed you home, and it all made sense when I saw her." He flailed about in Maya's general direction.

Maya gaped at him. "You _stalked_ her?"

"I can't stand how your sort throw that word around. The fact that _you've_ never been courted in the proper way doesn't make it abnormal."

"Silence, you fool!" _Crack!_

The man got to his feet and began to approach her. "Can't you see what she's done to you?" he asked. "She's a diviner! You've seen that stone she wears around her neck? It's an idol! It's connected with an evil spirit, a demon familiar she calls upon to work her dark magicks." Maya had not known until that moment that it was possible to pronounce a silent 'k' at the end of a word. "Come to the Lord, Franziska. Only the power of Jesus Christ, the living God, is strong enough to throw off witchcraft." He lay one hand over the small silver cross hanging from his neck, and the other he placed awkwardly on Franziska's elbow.

Seeing that Franziska was now holding her whip as though she were about to garrot him with it, Maya decided it was time to intervene.

"Ooooooooh!" she said, wiggling her fingers at the two of them. "Ooooooooooooooooh! I feel the blood of the Fey awakening within my veiiiiiiiiiins!"

Franziska stared in bemusement. The man stared in horror.

"By the power of the all-mighty Magatama," Maya continued, "I say that the next man whose skin this whip cuts will surely die! But not before he grows scales on his face and horns on his head and his dong falls off! Ooooooooooooooooooooooh!"

Franziska turned back to the man and noticed the sweat breaking out on is forehead. Grinning ferally, she raised her whip and let it fall with a _crack_ by his ankles. With a yelp and a jump he took off running. Franziska chased him through the streets of Los Angeles, cracking her whip at his feet and shouting for the foolish fool to turn around and proposition her again.

When she got back to Maya, she was howling with laughter. "Ooooooooh!" she mimicked, though her accent killed some of the effect. "Oh, I feel so foolish!"

The two of them gathered up the tracts their erstwhile visitor had dropped and gleefully read the most foolish passages aloud to each other. When they grew bored of this, they dumped the papers unceremoniously into the recycling bin and retreated to the bedroom to do something of which Jack Chick would most certainly not approve.


	6. Woman of Her Dreams (Dahlia/Trucy) Rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "Trucy x Dahlia. Make me shiver, anons."

The first time Phoenix sees one of the sketches, his heart stops cold. Just for a second, though; then he's chuckling at his own skittishness. His daughter has many talents, but art is among the least of them. The figures she draws have more-or-less interchangeable features, and the red-haired girl in the pale pink dress could be anyone at all.

Still, he asks Trucy if she could maybe take it down off the refrigerator and put it in her room instead. He doesn't need that sort of shock every time he goes to get a bottle of grape juice.

\---

"Daddy," she says, "do you ever have the sort of dream that happens several nights in a row, but it's a little bit different each time?"

He has. But since she's smiling as she asks, he's pretty sure they weren't quite the same thing she's talking about. "Can't say that I have, kiddo."

"Well, I have! You'd think it would get boring after a while, especially since it's not one of the wilder dreams, like winning the Grand Prix with a trick where I burn the building down then resurrect it, or being Magical Girl Trucy—"

He almost says something, but then decides that he doesn't want to know.

"—but there's this really cool person, and she and I just talk all night long. We have the craziest conversations sometimes."

Considering what Trucy apparently thinks is a normal conversation, Phoenix again decides it's better not to ask.

\---

It starts innocently enough. When Apollo voices his concern over Trucy's fascination with the Kitaki family, he laughs it off. Sure, the kid can get weirdly overenthusiastic, occasionally over some inappropriate things, but she has a good heart, and she knows right from wrong.

But over time, it only gets worse. When he or Apollo talk about their cases, she gradually starts asking more and more questions about the murders themselves, about the weapons and the CODs and the motivations of the guilty parties — and then, perhaps most alarming of all, about the bodies. She seems especially interested if the weapon is poison, or if the killer is a woman. And, increasingly, she is not her usual chipper self during those conversations. She tries to smile as she always has, but it never quite reaches her eyes. In those, there's a look of discomfort and fear, mixed with something that Phoenix absolutely refuses to acknowledge seeing in his baby girl.

It isn't long before he and Apollo decide together that it's best to stop answering her.

\---

"Daddy," she says, "do you ever have the sort of dream where..."

"The sort of dream where..?" he prompts her.

She blushes and looks away. "Ugh, never mind! It's too embarrassing."

As much as he doesn't want to, he thinks he understands. "Is it something you'd rather talk about with Maya or Ema?"

"Yeah," she says, and smiles. "Yeah, I think I'll do that."

\---

He really starts to worry when he catches her going through his old case files and looking at the photographs of crime scenes. It's then he has to admit to himself that he has no idea at all how to handle something like this.

"Trucy," he says. "Trucy, please tell me what's wrong."

She huffs. "Nothing's wrong, Daddy."

"Are you sure? You know you can tell me anything, Trucy." She ignores him. "Would you like to see a therapist?" he tries. He's not entirely sure that he trusts therapists, and even less sure about where he'd come by the money, but he's running out of ideas.

She actually rolls her eyes at him. "No, Daddy, I don't need my head shrinked. I told you: nothing's wrong."

Apollo doesn't agree. After that, he stops taking her with him behind the bar.

\---

He's cleaning her room (at least, that's what he tells himself) when he opens her desk drawer and finds the sketches.

There are dozens of them, all of the same woman: red hair, pink dress, sometimes butterflies or a parasol. Some of the drawings — the later ones, judging by the improved style – are decidedly less innocent than the others. On one of the earlier papers, the words "Trucy Hawthorne" are written, then scribbled over as though out of embarrassment.

And Phoenix's mind shuts down.

"Daddy?" Trucy. "Daddy, what on Earth are you doing in my room?"

He hears the tone of her voice, more sugary sweet than Trucy has ever tried to sound. He turns to her, sees the expression on her face, and knows instantly.

It's not her. It's Trucy's face. It's Trucy's body and clothes. But it's not her. Not his daughter.

"How long?" he asks, and the only reason he's not outwardly panicking is that he's too scared to move.

She looks confused for a moment, then laughs. "You're so much sharper than you were when we first met, Feenie. You caught me right away."

"Go back to Hell," he tells her.

"Or... did you think I'd been here longer?" she continues, ignoring him. "Did you think, perhaps, that might explain a thing or two? Sorry, Feenie. I'm afraid your daughter really is a pervert."

If she didn't look like Trucy, he would kill her with his bare hands.

"I made coffee," she says, holding the mug out, as though this were a perfectly reasonable follow-up to her previous statement. She crosses the room to him, and he stands frozen on the spot.

"Give her back," he says, and all the fury in the world radiates from those three words.

But she only laughs. "Or you'll what?" When he doesn't answer, she offers him the mug. "My old recipe," she explains. "Do you want it, or shall I?"

It takes him a moment to understand what she's saying, and then he wishes he didn't.

"Well," she says, "if you don't want it..." And raises the cup to Trucy's lips.

He snatches it away and downs every last drop.

As he falls to the ground, choking up blood from his scalded throat, the last thing he sees is Dahlia's cruel smile twisting his daughter's face.


	7. D-E-S-S-E-R-T (Franziska/Adrian) Rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "So Franziska's been instilled with the need to be completely perfect in everything she does, right? This has got to mess with her day-to-day life, no one can be that perfect.
> 
> So this anon would like to see her trying to deal with the imperfections of daily life. It can be whatever, maybe she's trying to open a jar and just can't, or maybe she puts batteries in something backwards, I don't know, but how much harder is it on her than it would be for normal people? I WANT ANGST MILKED OUT OF SIMPLE TASKS, PEOPLE.
> 
> bonus points for Franziska/Adrian 8D"

The letters stared at her mockingly from between the frames of Altavista's Babel Fish application. " _Two_ 'S's!" she shrieked. Heads turned. A crack of her whip turned them back again.

Still, two 'S's. She had been so certain.

It was in the mail. Oh _God_ , the letter was in the mail and there was nothing she could do. Miss Andrews would think she was an utter fool. Oh God, oh God, oh God!

 _Breathe, Franziska._ But the letter! But Miss Andrews! _Breathe. You are clever. You are capable. You will figure out a way to fix this._

"Foolish English language!" she muttered aloud. "A vowel followed by a single consonant followed by a second vowel has a long sound. A vowel followed by two consonants has a short sound. I know this! It is my fourth language, and I know this! What foolish fool of a sugar-guzzling, sand-treading limey did not?"

Heads were turning again. It mattered not. Closing the the browser and opening a word processor, Franziska set about correcting her error and tried not to hyperventilate as she did so.

\---

_Dear Miss Andrews,_

_Please disregard my assertion that marzipan is an arid region in which few forms of vegetation can thrive._

_Sincerely,  
Franziska_

Adrian stared at the letter. She turned it over to see if there was more on the back, turned the envelope inside-out to see if she had missed anything there, and at last came to the conclusion she could only chalk this one up to Franziska being... well, Franziska.

Strange as it was, it still went in the heart-shaped box hidden under her bed with all the others.


	8. Pretty Little Thing (Dahlia/Alita) Rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "I'm really craving more Dahlia/Alita. I want it badly enough I'll take anything anon likes, but here's a possible scenario:
> 
> Just a few months before 3-5, young (I think 13?) Alita Tiala goes to the prison with her class, as part of a Scared Straight program. Because everyone is so damn incompetent in the PW universe, Alita manages to wander off and meets none other than Dahlia Hawthorne.
> 
> Dahlia seduces her.
> 
> >:D?"

Alita Tiala was dreadfully bored. This "Scared Straight" program was failing entirely to live up to its name and, frankly, she was disappointed in it. She knew she didn't really have any right to expect to get anything good out of being arrested for shoplifting, but you would think being taken to meet some of the most hardened criminals in LA would at least be a bit of a thrill. But no, most of them turned out to be nothing more than a bunch of smelly older men who grunted and postured and were thoroughly unpleasant without being in any way frightening. How dull.

To make matters worse, the management was completely incompetent. There was simply no excuse for allowing a nice little girl like her to get lost from the group and be forced to wander alone among all these dirty prisoners, who called out uncreatively lewd comments and looked at her like she was a piece of meat. Whoever was responsible for this travesty of a program would be hearing from her daddy's lawyer.

At last, she managed to stumble across a pathway where the cells were fewer and farther between. Solitary confinement, maybe? Whatever, it was an improvement as far as she was concerned. Now if only she could find a guard…

"Excuse me, Miss, but what are you doing here?"

It was a woman's voice. Alita turned around and was surprised to see it came from one of the cells.

"My, you're a pretty little thing." The woman stepped out from the shadows. To Alita's surprise, she was beautiful. No, not just beautiful — gorgeous. She was slender and fair, with deep auburn locks pulled back from her face in two carefully woven braids. And she had the sweetest, gentlest, warmest smile Alita had ever seen. "Pretty like I used to be." Her long, slender fingers wrapped around the steel poles that separated the two of them, and to Alita she looked like a captive princess grasping languidly at the bars of her tower window. "What's your name?"

Alita told her.

"Alita Tiala," the woman repeated, and on her tongue it sounded like the name of some decadently sweet dessert. "I think you're about the age I was when I stole that diamond."

A jewel thief! Now _this_ was the sort of person Alita had been hoping to meet. Diamond heists were classy, exciting, almost romantic. "Is that what you're here for," she asked, hoping to get the full story.

The woman's smile twisted horribly, cutting like a jagged, pearly dagger into the side of her flawless face. "Hardly. If you want to know about _that_ you'll have to come closer. I'll whisper it into your ear."

Alita knew she really shouldn't. She knew it would be inappropriate, and possibly dangerous. So, of course, she did it.

The woman's arms reached through the bars and locked around her waist. The story she told in soft, hissing tones, a story of lies and blood and unrepentant cruelty, set Alita's bones shivering and turned her skin to gooseflesh. Then the woman pulled her closer, and teeth raked the lobe of her ear, sending a jolt of something lightning hot down her spine. It caught fire somewhere in her lower abdomen, and she burned uncomfortably beneath her skin.

She almost didn't notice the nimble hands rolling up the skirt of her summer dress. But she did, and her whole body went rigid. She didn't know when, exactly, things had started to go so horribly, dangerously wrong, but they had. This was the furthest possible scenario from the way she had intended to lose her virginity.

"You are a charming, pretty girl," the older woman whispered into her ear. "You'd be surprised how far that can get you."

She was terrified. She was frightened almost out of her mind.

When orgasm shook the tension from her body, she realized she wouldn't want it any other way.

*****

 _She excused herself from spending the evening with him, explaining she was saving herself for their wedding night. He believed her, mumbled something about respect, and joked that he was too much for her to handle._

Such a child _she thought as she smiled a smile she'd been rehearsing for seven years and stifled her dual urges to sigh in exasperation and laugh in his face._ Such a foolish, silly little boy.


	9. Strength (Franziska/Maya) Rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested:
> 
> "After reading that ADORABLE fic on the previous page about Pearl learning to deal with Phoenix and Maya not being in love with each other, I really really need to request this.
> 
> I really want a fic about Maya and any character other than Phoenix falling in love with each other. I don't care if it's het or femslash; I ain't picky in that regard. I just think that it's time that Maya got hers, you know?"

Maya was not entirely surprised to see Franziska approach them as they left Trés Bien, or to hear her say, in her usual terse and demanding tone, "Phoenix Wright. A word with your assistant, if you please." As they celebrated Iris's acquittal over dinner, she had noticed the young prosecutor glancing at her, then at Pearl, then once again at her before quickly averting her eyes. She _was_ surprised, or at least bemused, to hear what Franziska had to say when she got her alone.

"Miss Fey," she began, "I have done some reflecting, and it occurs to me that some of my professional conduct has been less than satisfactory. A prosecutor's job is to put the scum of the world safely behind bars. Therefore, convicting an innocent person is as black a mark on her record as failing to convict a guilty one; in either instance, the criminal goes free. When I prosecuted your case last year, I failed to duly consider whether you were innocent or guilty. For that I owe you an apology."

Maya's jaw dropped. "Um, wow. Did you join a twelve-step program for perfectionists or something?"

For a moment she thought she saw Franziska's icy demeanor melt into something that looked suspiciously like vulnerability, but just as quickly it was overcome by fiery anger. "Honestly!" she said, throwing her arms into the air and addressing the heavens. "Why do I bother with these fools? They are completely incapable of taking anything seriously!"

The prosecutor turned and made to stalk off, but Maya, realizing she had said the wrong thing, grabbed her hand to stop her from leaving. She fully expected Franziska to pull away and possibly strike her for her audacity, but instead the other woman inhaled sharply and went suddenly rigid. "Wait! I didn't mean anything by it. I was just caught off guard, is all. I know how hard it must be for someone like you to admit to being wrong."

"Do you accept my apology?" Franziska asked without turning her head.

"Of course!"

"Good. That's settled, then." A pause. "Miss Fey, you may let go of my hand."

And Maya found herself thinking, _I don't want to._ "Hey, Fran — do you mind if I call you Fran?" She suspected Franziska very well might, and so did not stop talking long enough to give her a chance to object. "I was just thinking, it was nice of Detective Gumshoe to take us out like this, and it's great that we were all able to be together, but, um, the food itself wasn't really much of a celebration, you know?" _Not that_ I _really ought to be celebrating right now._

Franziska finally turned back to her, with a small scowl on her face. "The food, Miss Fey, was terrible. I think an intervention may be in order to keep Scruffy from wasting his pathetic savings on foolishly vain attempts to appear cultured." She gave a long-suffering sigh. "In the meantime, I suppose I'll have to reverse his latest pay cut. The big oaf's foolish brain won't work any better for starving."

 _She really has changed,_ Maya thought. _Not that she'll ever admit it._ "Right, so do you know what I was thinking might wash the taste away? Ice cream! I saw a place right by Vitamin Square earlier. Wanna go?"

Franziska looked a bit taken aback. "The two of us? Right now? Why?"

 _Because I'm not ready to go home and face myself just yet. Because right now, I need to be around someone as ridiculously confident as you are. Because for some reason I still don't want to let go of your hand._ "Oh, come on! I don't know about you, but I hardly ever get the chance to hang out with girls my own age these days."

"We are not 'girls,'" said Franziska with a derisive sniff. "We are _women_."

"Okay, cool! HEY, NICK!" Maya shouted. "Can you take Pearly home for me? Us women are off to go get ice cream!"

"I never—" Franziska objected.

"Mystic Maya, are you sure you—?" Pearl called out.

"Um, okay, I think I can—" Phoenix began.

"Great! See ya!" And with that she took off running, dragging the astonished young prosecutor behind her.

 

\---

Maya had three scoops of strawberry ice cream in a sundae bowl slathered with hot fudge and smothered in rainbow sprinkles. Franziska had a pistachio mini-cone. She looked from one to the other and grimaced. "Miss Fey, your eating habits confound me. I suppose you exercise a great deal?"

"Besides running around with Nick all the time?" Maya replied between mouthfuls. "Nah, not really."

"Then you have — what do they call it here? — a high metabolism." She took a lick of her own pitifully small dessert and sighed. "How aggravating."

"Don't envy me too much. Sis always warned me it won't last. She used to say I should practice eating in moderation. I say I should enjoy pigging out while I can." To illustrate, she shoveled a particularly large spoonful into her mouth. "Oink!"

"True," Franziska said. Then she smirked. "And it does seem to have cost you in certain areas of development."

"Hey! Are you insulting my..?"

"Your chest, Miss Fey. Yes." There was a glint of mischief in her eye, and for a second Maya was keenly aware of the way the other girl's lips and tongue pressed into her ice cream.

"You don't mince words, do you?"

"Miss Fey, I am German. Germans _never_ 'mince words.' I do not understand your foolish American culture's foolish insistence on delicacy. For example, people I hardly know used to greet me with a 'how are you?' as we passed each other in the prosecutor's office, without pausing to let me answer. When they did this, I would stop them and make them listen to me explain _exactly_ 'how I am.'"

"Which was what? Furious?"

"Frequently, yes." She finished off her cone with a flourish and a smirk. "Strangely, they don't do that anymore."

"That's… kind of sad, actually. Are you proud about that? About driving people away?"

"Hmph! Only when those people are fools!" But it seemed to Maya that she looked a bit less smug than she had a moment before.

"Yeah, but isn't almost everyone a fool compared to you?" Maya joked with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "It must get kind of lonely."

Franziska's expression darkened, and Maya realized she had made a mistake. "Finish your ice cream, Miss Fey," she said coldly. "It's late, and the sun is going down."

 

\---

  
Franziska, to Maya's surprise and secret delight, insisted on driving her home. "It's okay, really," she had said. "I can always take the metro."

"I can't allow that," Franziska had replied. "It would not be safe for you to do so alone at night even if you _weren't_ the sort of fool to get herself in trouble at every available opportunity." And that was that.

"Thanks again for this," Maya now said as she looked dreamily out the window at the indigo-washed scenery whizzing by them. Franziska only grunted her acknowledgement, but Maya continued unfazed. "You know, I've always admired you." Because really, who knew if she would ever get another chance to say that? "We didn't meet in the best way possible, but I still thought you were pretty amazing." She received no reply but the hum of the engines. "We're the same age, but you're so much more mature than I am. And… you know… you're a strong woman." She sighed, thinking over everything that had gone wrong in the past few days and years. "I envy you your strength."

Maya was fairly sure the best response she could hope for at this point was a terse "thank you." Instead she heard Franziska say, in an unusually quiet voice, " _My_ strength, Miss Fey?"

She turned her head with a start and saw Franziska gritting her teeth and clenching the wheel a bit too tightly. "You are mistaken," the prosecutor continued. "It is the same mistake I once made. I am a _powerful_ woman. That isn't the same as being strong. Even the little girl knows that."

"Who? Pearly?"

Franziska nodded. "She's the one that reminded me I owed you an apology. 'Without your whip, you're nothing but a child.' She was half right. I could do without my whip, I think, so long as I had my career. But without either…"

"There's nothing wrong with being a career woman," Maya assured her. "I think it's admirable."

"That's not what I'm saying! Listen, if tomorrow I were to lose my badge and misplace my whip, I wouldn't even know who I was! I would be no one at all! Take just a couple things away, and all my apparent strength will crumble. There isn't enough in my heart to sustain me." She blinked, and Maya realized she was suppressing tears. "Unlike you, Miss Fey. You have had many things taken from you, and it hasn't changed you a bit. When I saw you on the stand today, after everything you'd just been through and all you'd just lost, I realized: _you_ are the strongest woman I know. You know who you are, without relation to anyone or anything else. That is strength! That is maturity! It doesn't matter if you foolishly like foolish children's programs, or… or 'pig out' on disgusting greasy food and sweets, or…" She fell silent abruptly, leaving Maya to try to absorb it all.

"Thank you," Maya said at last, sincerely "I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." _I can't believe it came from_ you, she refrained from adding.

"Yes. Well," Franziska replied gruffly. "Don't go spreading it around. The whole world does not need to know about Prosecutor von Karma's foolish insecurities and doubly foolish crush."

Wait. What? That was a _confession_?

Maya's head was spinning and her heart pounding as they pulled up in front of her apartment complex, but she managed to get herself together enough to ask Franziska to walk her to the door. As they went, she moved to take the other woman's hand in hers, but Franziska still had her fists clenched and did not seem to notice.

"Good night, Miss Fey," Franziska said when they reached the entrance to Maya's building.

"'Night, Fran. We'll do this again sometime, right? Just the two of us?"

"Perhaps."

"We should."

"If you say so."

She turned to go, and Maya's breath stuck in her chest. She still didn't get it? Really?

"Wait!" For the second time that day Maya reached out and took hold of the retreating prosecutor's hand. This time, though, Franziska turned around to face her. Then all at once the gap between them closed, and Maya could taste blue raspberry lip gloss and pistachio ice cream.

As they kissed, Franziska's hand twisted and uncurled in her grasp, and their fingers twined together.


End file.
